Night Owls
by SophiaLilith
Summary: AU where Doumeki is a bartender at a run of the mill backstreet bar. It's his first night and he's warned by his senior, Nanahara, of regular customer, Yashiro. But rather than being dangerous, Yashiro is nutorious for using the bar's alley as a place for his sexual endeavours. Doumeki finds Yashiro, close to unconsciousness in the alley. Thus sparks a strange new relationship!


**Hello! This is my first ever Saezuru Fanfic! I've had this fic for ages, I just never got round to posting it! Hope you enjoy :) please let me know if you'd like another chapter**

 _The scent of fresh smoke, a rustle in the shadows, the faded orange tip of a burning cigarette…_ Dark blood blemished the otherwise perfect fair skin of the man slumped against the filthy wall, his clothes hanging off him like rags. Golden eyes flashed in the dark, and a puff of smoke followed the laughter under his breath as he caught Doumeki's surprise.

"What would I do without these, eh?" He said weakly, coughing as the smoke caught in his chest. And then, with curious amusement, "Have we met?"

Doumeki had started his new job as a bartender for the 'Sparrow's Nest' that very same night. The job was, by no means, a permanent one – it was only a temporary contract to get him back on his feet. He had his rent to pay and his little sister to support – those were the only guiding lights in Doumeki's life. Everything else was set routine, try and not to think, just _do_. Nanahara, his superior at the bar was easy enough to get along with and everything started smoothly, as Doumeki expected.

"You seem to know what you're doing." Said Nanahara approvingly as Doumeki served customers, one after the other. "We don't usually get all that busy in here, being a backstreet bar and all, so you don't have to be so gung-ho about getting everything done at top speed."

"I've done it before." Said Doumeki.

Nanahara laughed. "I had a good feeling about you. Keep up the good work, 'kay?"

And that was that. Doumeki was content to let the rest of the night slip by like this, polishing glasses, serving drinks and brushing the floor at closing time, all the while letting the smooth, quiet jazz in the background and the heavy aroma of liquor guide his senses away from reality. The first few hours until midnight passed this way. Doumeki was mixing a cocktail when his gaze was hitched momentarily to the entranceway of the dim bar. A slender, well-dressed man with golden eyes and a relaxed expression wandered inside as though the place was his own home. Doumeki stared at him, perplexed by the beauty of this tall, fair-haired stranger and their eyes met. The man did a double-take on Doumeki, passing him by at first before returning his gaze ten-fold. The man stopped walking, right there in the middle of the bar, and Doumeki thought he was going to talk to him – _he wondered for a vague moment if his voice was as incredible as his appearance –_ but instead he gave Doumeki a small, tipped smile, before resuming the journey to his seat, hands lightly tucked in his pockets. The man had turned away, but Doumeki couldn't stop watching him. The man was alone, choosing the furthest, darkest corner to sit by.

"Aaaaaand, there he is." Nanahara's voice in Doumeki's ear made him jump.

"Wha - ? Who?" Asked Doumeki.

Nanahara nodded in the direction of the fair-haired man. "Him. He's later than usual."

"Who is he?"

"Yashiro." Said Nanahara, a hint of distaste in his tone. "Watch out for him. He's harmless himself, it's the mess he leaves behind by the end of the night."

Doumeki frowned. Nanahara looked at him for a moment, seemingly struggling with something internally before shrugging.

"I may as well tell you." He sighed. "Ever since this guy started coming here around a year back, we've attracted a whole different type of customer. They only come in when _he's_ here, of course, but it's annoying. The rest of the staff here reckon he's a prostitute."

Doumeki blinked. "A – _prostitute?_ "

Nanahara shrugged. "Beats me. A regular prostitute wouldn't usually get fucked in the back alley of some dingy bar, right? Y'know… they'd settle for a hotel or some indoor bathroom at least. But nope. Not Yashiro. I must've seen him go off with a hundred different guys in here."

Doumeki frowned. "But why – someone like him" –

Nanahara raised a brow . "I didn't mean to shock you."

"It's not that. I just don't understand why someone so beautiful would allow themselves to be treated that way."

Nanahara gaped. "Beautiful?" He snorted, struggling to hold in his laughter, "Jeez! So you swing that way too, huh? Maybe I shouldn't have hired you after all!"

Doumeki shook his head. "I don't. I'm just confused."

Nanahara was bewildered. "So serious. I was joking, man – but seriously, Yashiro is bad news. At least, the guys he picks up are."

It was as though the man, Yashiro, had sensed them watching him; he looked up at Doumeki from the shadows. Doumeki couldn't bring himself to look away.

Seconds later, a rowdy lot of three burly men burst into the bar. Like a flock of crows, they surrounded Yashiro. _They must know him_ , Doumeki thought. He watched out of the corner of his eye as he swept the floor behind the bar. Two of the men sat around the table with him, while the other broke off to order drinks. Doumeki was grateful that Nanahara took the order so that he could continue watching Yashiro. He was too far away to hear their conversation, but Yashiro was smiling at what the others said, and then – laughing. _Was that his laugh?_ Doumeki thought, as the wonderful sound rung from the corner, far more pleasant to hear than the other voices around him. Doumeki shook his head. _Focus_. He'd cleaned the same spot three times.

"So it begins." Said Nanahara, clicking his tongue. "I think this is a new record. It's not even been three minutes."

"You mean those guys?" Doumeki asked, eyeing them.

"Probably. Almost definitely. Wanna know what the guy getting the drinks said? 'The trick is to get them so drunk they can't feel it until the next morning'."

"Disgusting." Said Doumeki instinctually.

"Agreed. He's stupid. Yashiro is a masochist through and through – he _wants_ to feel it." Said Nanahara.

Doumeki found this even more surprising. Nanahara was acting so casual about an act so alien to him, he didn't know what to feel.

As the hours wore on and the rest of the customers emptied out, the men in the corner got more and more intoxicated, and the golden haired man grew quiet. Doumeki noticed when he stopped laughing, and when he next dared to look over at the table, all he saw was Yashiro, his face downcast towards the wood, six empty glasses by his head. It was around this time that the other men hauled him from his seat and out of the door, staggering themselves. It was 3am, and the bar was empty.

Nanahara gave a great sigh of relief.

"Now we can start packing up. Just don't go out back for a while. They're using the alley."

Doumeki couldn't help the sick feeling that churned in his stomach upon hearing that. A huge part of him wanted to go out there, save the stranger before it was too late… but the look on Nanahara's face told him it was none of his business, and he tried to get on with his work silently.

An hour later, Nanahara assured him it was safe to take the trash into the alley outside. Doumeki agreed, so exhausted by now that he could only think with hazy regret about Yashiro, the sad stranger that the others called a prostitute.

It was mid-winter, and deadly cold in the alley. Frost crystallised the plastic bins and scattered waste on the hard, concrete ground. Doumeki could see his own breath leave him in swirls of white mist. Soon he'd be able to go home… Then he heard – a spark – the unmistakeable click of a lighter. The scent of fresh smoke followed, a rustle in the shadows, and the faded orange tip of a burning cigarette. Doumeki froze. He hadn't noticed him. Dark blood blemished the otherwise perfect fair skin of the man slumped against the filthy wall, his clothes hanging off him like rags. Golden eyes flashed in the dark, and a puff of smoke followed the laughter under his breath as he caught Doumeki's surprise.

"What would I do without these, eh?" He said weakly, coughing as the smoke caught in his chest. And then, with curious amusement, "Have we met?"

Doumeki stared at Yashiro. It took him a moment to find his voice. "No. I just started working here."

"Ah…" Yashiro breathed, taking a long drag from the cigarette. It was below freezing, but he sat there by the wall, his long legs stretched out before him as though he were lounging in luxury. He wasn't even shivering.

"The bartender." He mused, half to himself. "I remember."

Thick purple bruises blotched the white skin on his neck. His shirt was completely torn open and his eyes were dulled by the alcohol, his gaze vacant.

"You need to go home. It's freezing out here, you'll die." Said Doumeki.

The man laughed. It was the same laugh as before, loud, unapologetic, but so pleasant. Doumeki felt his heart thudding in his chest. He wasn't cold anymore.

"That sounds interesting." Said Yashiro. "I wouldn't mind dying here… like this."

"Someone like you doesn't deserve to die like this." Said Doumeki, dropping the trash and stepping across the ice to where Yashiro was slumped.

"Someone like me?"

"Yes… you're beautiful." Said Doumeki without thinking.

" _Pfft_." Yashiro spat out his cigarette. It extinguished against the ice. There was a trail of ash left on his lips. "So it's my looks you're interested in. Figures."

Doumeki frowned. That wasn't what he'd meant. Even so, he couldn't leave the guy like this, exposed to hypothermia with no regard for his own life. He bent and hooked an arm around Yashiro's shoulders, pulling his slender wrist over his own. It wasn't until they were half-way to the door that Yashiro realised what was happening.

"Hey, hey, hey! What are you doing?"

"You're coming home with me." Said Doumeki firmly. "I won't allow you to kill yourself."

Yashiro mumbled in protest, but his words were too slurred for Doumeki to understand.

"WOAH, Doumeki - where did you find that guy?!" Nanahara exclaimed as Doumeki pulled Yashiro through the door.

"He was left outside like this. I'm taking him with me."

Nanahara shook his head, dumbfounded. "Err – alright, fine. Just don't let him bleed on the carpet, I just cleaned this place… boss'll kill me…"

Doumeki called a cab to collect them from the bar and apologised to Nanahara for the trouble. Nanahara backed away with his hands in the air, as though Yashiro was infectious.

"It's nothing to do with me. Don't apologise. I'll see you tomorrow."

Getting Yashiro into the cab was no easy feat. He became extraordinarily energetic as Doumeki tried to shove him inside without touching his injuries.

"But I haven't finished my drink!" He protested.

"You've had enough." Doumeki grumbled. "Get. _In_. Please."

The cab driver eyed the pair. "I see you got beat up pretty bad."

The cut on Yashiro's lip had split and was bleeding down his chin.

"Something like that." Doumeki sighed.

Yashiro gave up and flopped onto the leather seat, leaving very little room for Doumeki to squish up beside him. He directed the driver to his apartment, and they were off. _Finally,_ Doumeki thought. Yashiro was watching him carefully. Had he sobered up some? His eyes were brighter than before. Then, his gaze intently on Doumeki, he bit his lip and licked the blood from the side of his mouth in one, slow, deliberate movement. Doumeki felt chills raise the hairs on the back of his neck. He tried not to show it on his face. Yashiro was waiting for a reaction, he could tell that much.

"Stop here." Said Doumeki when they reached his gate. Yashiro was falling asleep, his eyelids fluttering shut as he desperately tried to stay awake. He paid the driver and realised he had no choice but to carry Yashiro out of the car. He scooped the battered man into his arms, surprised at how much he weighed. He'd imagined him to be lighter, given his frame. So he wasn't homeless then, as Doumeki had suspected. He must be eating properly. Then the question remained: what had driven him to the back alley of the 'Sparrow's Nest' to be used as the plaything of thugs and perverts?

The apartment was cold. It hadn't been heated all night. And he only had microwave meals and left overs… he hadn't been expecting guests. Doumeki set Yashiro gently down on the sofa – he could shower when he woke up, and went to heat up soup on the stove. He was hungry, and hadn't eaten since that morning. While the soup was cooking, he warmed his hands, reluctant to turn his head and set eyes on the mysterious man he'd brought back to his house. For the first time in years, Doumeki felt nervous being in another person's presence – even if said person was a man. And a prostitute. And a complete stranger. It was irrational, nonsensical, and completely impractical. The object of Doumeki's bewilderment spoke, startling him.

"You should have done me back in that alley – there was no need for all this pampering." Yashiro snarked, fully awake, rubbing his head and propping himself up on the sofa.

"You're awake."

"Well spotted."

Yashiro waited.

"So are we doing it then, or what?"

Doumeki frowned. "I didn't bring you here for that."

"I thought you said I was beautiful." Yashiro teased.

Doumeki fell silent. How was he in such high spirits? Was he so drunk that he couldn't feel his injuries at all?

"What if I told you you're my type?" Yashiro continued, rising from the sofa. He winced. So he _was_ in pain. "Would you do me then?"

"No."

Yashiro dropped the seductive tone. "You're no fun."

Doumeki turned back to the stove. "I made you some food." He lied. It didn't matter. He wasn't hungry anymore.

"What are you? A maid?" Said Yashiro, laughing. He limped to Doumeki's side.

"Sit down. You're injured." Doumeki ordered, more forcefully than he meant to.

Yashiro shrugged. "I'm used to it."

He grabbed the spoon out of Doumeki's hand and dipped it into the saucepan, taking a hefty slurp. Doumeki noticed how cold his hand was as it brushed against him. He shivered again. That kept happening…

"This is good. Did you make it from scratch?"

Doumeki shook his head. "I bought it."

He could feel Yashiro scrutinising him.

"You've barely looked at me once since we got here."

"Haven't I?"

"No…" Yashiro was shorter than him, but he leaned on his tip toes to gaze into Doumeki's face. Doumeki made himself look at him. Yashiro's eyes were so full of intensity that he thought he'd turn to stone if he stared into them for much longer. Like Medusa.

"You know you were staring at me all the time in the bar, right? It was really hard to feel comfortable with you looking at me like that."

"Sorry." Doumeki looked away.

Yashiro tipped his head to one side. "You're like a kid. So innocent. Huh." And then, "Please don't tell me you're a virgin."

"I'm not."

"Good, because I hate being fucked by virgins."

"I won't do that to you."

Yashiro huffed, his eyes hardening. He sloped back to the sofa, clutching his side.

"This is getting irritating. I'm not a woman."

Doumeki turned off the heat and poured the soup into a bowl. "I know." He replied.

"So you don't have to treat me like one. I don't expect to be wined and dined before I let you bed me. I won't cry if you're rough with me. But you probably know that already."

Doumeki brought the soup to him silently. Yashiro took it, but as soon as his fingers came into contact with the ceramic bowl, he withdrew his hand sharply and gasped. The bowl tumbled to the floor, smashing to pieces. Yashiro curled in on himself, clutching his stomach.

"What's the matter? Are you in pain?" Doumeki was next to him immediately, a hand on his shoulder before he knew it, no regard for the ceramic pieces under his feet.

"Shit." Yashiro grunted. "One of 'em kicked me… I think. My insides are all messed up."

"The alcohol doesn't help." Said Doumeki. "What made them kick you?"

Yashiro looked up at him, smirking through the pain. "I asked them to."

 _Masochist_. Nanahara had said it, and Doumeki hadn't quite understood. Now he did.

He took Yashiro by his shoulder, guiding him to the bathroom.

"You need to shower." He said, "I can lend you some of my clothes for now. I'll go to the convenience store first thing in the morning."

"Idiot." Said Yashiro through gritted teeth. "They'll be way too big for me. Can't you go now?"

"Yes." Doumeki agreed without hesitation. "I'll go when you're in the bath. Can you undress yourself?"

Yashiro nodded. "I told you… I'm used to this."

* * *

Doumeki felt uncomfortable leaving Yashiro alone in his apartment. Not because he thought he'd run away with all of his possessions, (although that made a lot more sense than the real reason now he thought about it) but he was scared that Yashiro would injure himself further. He rushed himself in the convenience store, picking up the cheapest clothes that looked vaguely around Yashiro's size, before running back to his apartment, almost slipping on ice.

The shower was still running when he returned, which he took as a good sign. He knocked on the door. A disgruntled groan answered him.

"I bought you clothes."

"What?! I can't hear you. Come in here."

Doumeki could hear his own pulse thudding. How many times had he shared baths with naked men and not thought twice about it? Of course, he hadn't been counting. So why was he so nervous on this occasion? _Because he'd never looked at a human being and felt so instantaneously overwhelmed with awe._ It was an undeniable fact, and as Doumeki opened the bathroom door, that fact was reaffirmed.

Yashiro leant against the tiled wall, the extent of his injuries evident now that there was nothing to hide them. More bruises peppered his ribs in irregular markings, some faded, some newly blooming, dark blue and purple. His back, too, was scratched with red lines. Not only that, but old scars striped him in long, thin lacerations of raised, white flesh. He was beautiful still, Doumeki thought, but hurt. His golden hair hung, plastered to his face by the water, and his jaw was clenched in his effort to stand. With horror, Doumeki realised that the specs of water that reached him from the shower were ice cold.

"Yashiro!" He cried out unthinkingly. Yashiro faced him, his golden eyes dark in his pale face.

" _You know my name_." He muttered, before sliding to the floor.

Doumeki carried Yashiro, freezing and wrapped in three towels, to his bed. He was too wet to dress in anything, and Doumeki didn't want to risk unwrapping him for fear he'd catch hypothermia. He stared down, mystified, at the unconscious man in his bed. He brushed his fingers against Yashiro's cheek, marvelling at how smooth his cold skin was, like marble. He could be a statue in sleep, Doumeki thought. But his fine, golden hairs were too soft, his warm breath too real for him to be anything other than human. Doumeki wasn't sure how many hours passed this way; by simply losing himself in gazing at Yashiro, he lost all sense of time, and the birds were singing their morning song by the time he finally fell asleep, crouched by the bed, his fingers laced in Yashiro's hair.


End file.
